Koholint Dreams: Magick and Trick
by Semiheathen
Summary: The first of a series of Koholint stories set after the Wind Fish's awakening. 2nd chapter coming soon.


Koholint Dreams: Magick and Trick  
  
by Craig McLaughlin  
  
2/16/03  
  
3/28/03: Things have been really crazy for me lately, hence no update to this story. I've got a few more chapters down on paper, and this particular volume of the chapter has been outlined, but I just haven't had the time or energy to work on it as much as I'd like to. I expect to finish it over the summer, in between work, sleep, and graduation parties, ad to get started on some other projects.  
  
P.S. You may have noticed that, on occasion, I've altered the world of Koholint as I've seen fit. Good for you. Now stop worrying about it and enjoy the story.  
  
1.  
  
The ocean breeze skated over the tide, whipping through foam and spray. It struck the island peak and fell, turning inland, sweeping through the valleys. By now it bore only the faintest tint of salt, a whisper of the sea that lay just over the hills.  
  
The creature paused and raised its snout to the wind, breathing deeply in the good ocean scent. Reflexively its long, softly furred tail curled around its ankles, the rounded tip twitching slightly over its footpaws. It breathed the air in, read it, knew it. The shores were less than quarter day's away; he would get there before nightfall, in the between-time. The salt-smell hailed from the north, but it lied; he knew to continue east.  
  
Deeper...There were animals. A myriad of sight-scents came to his mind, naming and signifying, mapping out his path. He plotted his course; skirting predators, seeking out nice fruit. The wind dropped, taking with it its knowledge of the world ahead. His tail unraveled slowly, calmly. The bamber's body leaned forward, till its front-paws were on the ground. It began to walk, loping on feet and knuckles, its brown furry dome of a skull lifted up from its shoulders.  
  
He stopped suddenly, and raised it still higher. Its nostrils twitched in the resurgent breeze. Water-smell, salty and singing of the waves; but underneath it...Running water, fresh water, over a rich silt bed. A stream.  
  
The bamber shifted direction, nearly running now, body held horizontal to the ground. He brushed through a meadow of kildergrass, cutting a furrow through a plateau of stems taller than he was. He crested one small hillock, and there it was; a sparkling silver band twenty feet wide, snaking its way down from the hills, into the forest to the south. A tendril of trees reached north, like a long greed finger lying by the river's side.  
  
The bamber darted for the water, scrambling down the slope and over the field. He slowed at the bank, raising his lower body until he was walking slowly on two legs. Clawed feet scraping at the scree, he kneeled at the water's edge, lowering his face and paws. He cupped the water between them, and raised it to his mouth. It was not his usual method of drinking, but he found he enjoyed it. He'd seen the Skinbambers drink like this, and for a moment he pretended he was one of them, strong and tall and furless, hooting happily to himself. The breeze rose at his back, not the sweeping winds from the mountains and hills, but an orphan current, traveling the same path he did. It ruffled his backfur; he watched, undrinking, as the water rippled, the waves cutting across the current towards the opposite bank. The breeze curled around his head, into his nose, carrying his own scent. It was like looking into a living mirror; he watched himself as he climbed barnoak trees, ran through kildergrass and dived into the water, shrieking, paws flailing and heavy in the current-  
  
The monster struck the bank, and a spray of soil and pebbles fell into the water. Its eight long, tapering limbs uncoiled from the thick, deep-red hide of its body. They whipped out over the stream - the tips sliced at the bamber's wet fur. He shrieked in terror and kicked out, into the middle of the stream. The monster's teeth gnashed in frustration, and it stepped into the water, gliding on its arms.  
  
The bamber's feet left the silt bed, and a new fear overwhelmed it. For a moment he flailed helplessly in the current. Then instinct rolled him onto his stomach. His nose was less than an inch above the surface - the lapping water leapt into his nostrils. Behind him the monster struck out in pursuit, its heavy body floating as eight arms beat the water.  
  
The current was swift and the bamber light, and impossible dreams of high trees entered his mind. Suddenly a great weight struck the middle of his back. His entire body was dunked beneath the surface - water filled every hole in his head. Instinct fled; all four limbs were thrashing uselessly in panic. He felt his body rise slowly, as if a great, unfelt paw was pushing from underneath him. Then the sky fell once more.  
  
The bamber opened his mouth to scream and the stream fell inside, choking his pleas. His footpaws struck the streambed and dragged. He opened his eyes to a blur of water and light and churned-up soil, and a red shadow blotting out the sun.  
  
He felt the hand once again, pushing on his body, and mentally cringed at what he expected next. A cool draft of air struck the top of his skull, and then his entire head was enveloped in a cold wind. His paws no longer touched the bed; he was floating. He coughed wretchedly, and long jets flew from his mouth. His eyes were still blurred - he blinked, and with a start saw a sheet of red hide in the water before him.  
  
He rolled onto his back, eyes burning, nose burning, lungs burning. His back ached - his throat rebelled, coughing uncontrollably. An awful taste slipped and rolled in his mouth, and he spat without realizing it. It took him a moment to realize that the soil scraping at his back was not the bed, that he was not back underwater. He had run aground on the bank.  
  
Something heavy scraped at his feet. The bamber looked down and saw the monster standing before him.  
  
He shut his eyes and waited for the teeth, but felt only the ripples lapping at his paws. He looked again and realized that the monster had grown - incredibly, its red skin was now spreading over the stream surface. He watched as the red skin crawled with the current, crept beneath his vision. That horrible taste reappeared. Its stench rose off the water to greet him, and he crinkled his brown nose. When the deep shadow fell over him, he shut his eyes once more and gladly went into it.  
  
~~~  
  
Thin towers of blue smoke rose above the Animal Village, fattening and thinning as they climbed into a deep-blue morning sky. It spread itself like a threadbare blanket over the small plain, a few dozen buildings ranging a pair of commons. Highlands surrounded it on two sides; the rolling country to the north, on which stood the walled domain of the ruins; and the Yarna Desert to the east. To the east was the River, flowing into Martha's Bay and then to the sea. Waves licked at the beach less than a quarter mile to the south.  
  
Lunchtime was more than an hour away. Work and play continued, occasionally at each others' throats; the righteous shouts of the industrious could be heard, often chased by mischievous giggles. Hammers and saws sang in a grating chorus. Steady, lazy back-and-forth traffic flowed to the River and the Bay. The first tints of cooking had appeared in the wood smoke.  
  
The dog noticed none of this. He slipped in from the north, from the rocky hills that ran down to the village from the great stone walls. He walked on two legs, as befitted a Talking dog. He was five and a half feet tall, and stood little chance of being mistaken for one the lesser kind. His fur was a light, sandy brown, straight, and not too long. One rounded ear stood straight up on his head; the other flopped down to his scalp. He wore human clothing, a mottled, earth-colored jerkin that ended at his waist. Over that went a sash, which he had used to strap several wooden spears tightly to his back. Strapped over those was a pair of large burlap sacks, like overlarge knapsacks. A third sack, much smaller than the others, had been lashed on top of these two.  
  
He skirted the northern side of the village, traveling south down the path that twisted between the town and the desert. A single, rather large building stood at the Village's southwest corner; the dog entered through the backdoor. It was two stories high, and built of very fine cedar, facing the western commons and the foot path that led south to the Village Pool. An engraving of a beehive had been mounted above the front door; above this, in human script, was the word Honeycomb.  
  
"Delivery."  
  
A black mountain rolled and heaved, its snowcap teetering precariously. It split and revealed a deep cavern ringed with sharp white rocks.  
  
"Mellon!"  
  
The fat bear rose from his place at the cutting board, reaching up with one paw to steady his chef's hat. Waddling at the pace of a runaway boulder, he spread his arms, collided with the dog, and wrapped him up.  
  
Thinking quickly, the hunter pulled a single drawstring. The cords holding his sacks unraveled, and they fell to the floor. The bear roared delightedly and lifted the dog off the floor, squeezing him. The dog, in return, roared with what he hoped sounded like robust laughter.  
  
The bear dropped him suddenly, shaking the floorboards. He wobbled unsteadily on his paws while his attacker grinned. The dog spoke first.  
  
"Either you're very happy to see me, or I should grab my spears."  
  
"Have you the octoroks?"  
  
"Just when I was beginning to revel in the pleasantries. Three: two full-growns and a juvenile, a little less than a hundred pounds between them."  
  
The bear spread his arms once more. Mellon held up his paws and stepped backwards, skipping nimbly over the sacks.  
  
"It's an extra twenty rupees per broken rib."  
  
That stopped the Chef cold. He continued to smile.  
  
"I have just received a new order from Mabe. There's some sort of official reception going on tomorrow, and they ordered ten platters of my best Octorok a la orange."  
  
Mellon was leaning down to open the sacks and flaunt his wares. He looked up. "Price?"  
  
"400 rupees for the lot. Not to mention whatever appetizers I manage to tack onto the order. I was getting worried you wouldn't come in time; I don't have enough stock to cover this."  
  
Mellon reached into one of the two larger sacks, and pulled on something inside. A length of fiery-red tentacle came into view. "Well, we need to weigh them, but it looks like you'll be making a good profit."  
  
"And with the leftover meat..." The chef's eyes slipped away as his voice trailed off, to a world of cuts, spices, and stews.  
  
"Most people get that look when they think of their spouses."  
  
"And if you'd be so kind to find me a lady bear on this rock, then so shall I."  
  
"Want her dead or alive?"  
  
The Chef sniffed in haughty offense. "As if I'd ever eat one of my own kind."  
  
"It'd sure fool me." Mellon took up a spear and poked the Chef's expanse of blubbery stomach with the butt. "Looks like you've got one in there already."  
  
The Chef snatched the spear and tossed it aside. "It is the mark of a great cook."  
  
"Interesting. I can't remember how many artists I've seen walking around, splattered with paint." Mellon bent down again and dragged out a sizeable octorok carcass. The spear wound was visible in the body, a dark hole in the hide just above the mouth. "Actually, I was thinking you'd sell her. How much do you think a few platters of black bear fricassee would fetch at the next one of these receptions?"  
  
"If Mayor Richard picks up the tab again, this scheme just might be worthwhile."  
  
Mellon's good ear pricked as he dropped the second octorok. "Richard's paying for this shindig?"  
  
"Indeed he is. Do you think Tarin would be one to pay forty rupees per plate?"  
  
"Throw some mushrooms in with the garnish, and he might." The Chef snorted as he swung the first carcass onto the cutting board. Mellon hauled something else out of the second sack.  
  
"Any room in the menu for some of these?" He plopped the object down on the board. It was a bluish, amorphous mass, soft and squishy, roughly the size of a honeydew. As it sat, its edges begin to slowly spread as it flattened under its own weight.  
  
The Chef held the gel up in one massive paw. He squeezed very slightly, afraid it would burst at his strength, then sniffed. "Fresh. When did you get it?"  
  
"Found a swarm of them in the hills around the Shrine a couple of hours ago. Got about five more in the sack."  
  
The Chef nodded, mostly to himself, and then dropped the gel back on the board next to the octorok. "They'll be good in a soup. Let's get them on ice."  
  
The third octorok, the smallest, came out of the sack. It, too, was deep-red in color. Mellon lifted the third sack, and placed it on a table. He opened the mouth, and drew from it a small bamber, chocolate-brown and little more than two feet in height. It was a juvenile, and had not yet reached his species' full size.  
  
The Chef spotted it and tapped his footpaw against the floor in irritation. "First you suggest cannibalism, and now you want me to serve coca bamber at an official Mabe Village reception?"  
  
The creature was awake, legs curled against its chest. Its soft, almost fluffy fur was moist; it was shivering. The Chef took one look at it and made a noise of disdain. Mellon stroked its head gently.  
  
"The least you could have done was found me some nice gargan bambers. If I cook this, I might as well ask the village children to donate their pet kittens for appetizers."  
  
"Not for you. It's for me."  
  
"You're going to eat it?"  
  
Without looking Mellon grabbed the dead gel and tossed it in the Chef's face. It fell to the floor and broke open, spilling gelatinous innards onto the floorboards. The bear wiped his mouth in disgust.  
  
"I'm going to keep it. As a pet."  
  
The Chef grimaced at the gel's remains. "You're taking half-price for that."  
  
"Do bambers eat gels?"  
  
The Chef returned his attention to the octorok carcass. "I've not the slightest interest in finding out." Despite this declaration, he watched from the corner of his eye as Mellon scooped a pawful of offal from the floor and laid it next to the bamber. It sniffed the air several times, and then opened its eyes. He stood up slowly, kneeled next to the food, and began to eat."  
  
"I think he likes it."  
  
"One does not expect such elevated tastes in a bamber. He'll make a fine companion. How did you manage to meet such a fine fellow?"  
  
"The juvenile octorok ambushed him at a stream. I happened to have been planning the same thing for the octorok."  
  
"Serendipity." The chef carefully examined a row of stone and metal cutting-knives.  
  
"My thoughts as well, only mine weren't sarcastic."  
  
"Well, you know how I feel about the lower animals."  
  
Mellon flicked a bit of gel guts onto the bamber's nose. It hooted laughter and flailed at it. "Yes. If they're not food, they're competition for the same."  
  
"It's a wise attitude to hold."  
  
"So, you think I should've let the octorok have him? Fatten it up a little and get a better price for myself?"  
  
The chef had chosen his blade, a fourteen-inch serrated metal knife. He began sawing away at the hanks of octorok flesh.  
  
"I'm not going to question what you did. You're the hunter, you know of such things. I just don't understand this whole attitude towards pets. You might as well shave your coat and call yourself a human, raising that thing."  
  
"Him."  
  
The chef raised his knife suggestively. "It."  
  
"Let's not argue."  
  
"And what else do we do, exactly?"  
  
"That reminds me.He needs a name."  
  
"For Egg's sake, why not make it your heir?"  
  
"Personally, I'm inclined to name him after his godfather."  
  
The Chef looked up. The dog and the bamber were both looking in his direction: Mellon at him, and the pet at the slices of meat lying piled on the board.  
  
"Chefi Bamber. How about it?"  
  
The Chef shook his head, lowered his knife, and began cutting with renewed vigor. "You don't want to know what I think."  
  
"You'll come to his birthday party, right?"  
  
The Chef threw his head back and growled in irritation. "Starting tomorrow, I'm looking for a new procurer."  
  
Mellon laughed and scooped up his new pet. "Besides the Honeycomb's world-renowned Octorok a la orange, what is else is on the menu for tomorrow?"  
  
"At Mabe? You're thinking of going?"  
  
"I might stop by, show off your godson."  
  
"I promise to act proud. As far as I know, some chicken dishes, and fish, I'd wager."  
  
"Shellfish?" Mellon's nose twitched.  
  
"Probably. There was something odd about the menu, as I remember, but I can't put my paw on it."  
  
"Don't strain yourself." Mellon watched as Chefi clambered onto his shoulder.  
  
"Thanks. The lunchtime crowd will be coming in soon. Why don't you head to the dining room, get a bite to eat, and get out of my shop?"  
  
"I'll do that. See you tomorrow, Chef."  
  
"Till tomorrow, Mellon." With one paw he lifted the denuded carcass and flipped it. Mellon made his way toward the swinging door that separated the dining hall from the kitchen.  
  
"Salad!" Mellon turned around and looked at the Chef.  
  
"I think the random outbursts are what I enjoy most about our conversations, Chef."  
  
"The menu for the reception - it's absolutely brimming with salad, as I remember. The vegetable farmers are getting more out of this deal than I am."  
  
Mellon's ears twitched quizzically. "Salads, huh? Who would want so much salad at a dinner?"  
  
2.  
  
That same wind continued its assault the island's shores through that day and into the night. Its gentle (and occasionally vicious) breath was a familiar feature of life on Koholint, swooping in from the east all year round, season by season. Its dominion over Koholint was absolute, such that a western wind was an oddity to be remarked upon. The islanders, both Talking and non, had long learned to expect its presence, and to go about their day with its fidelity in mind. The Corvaer skimmed the rolling high tide twenty miles off Koholint's southwestern shore. Her shark's fin of a mainsail cut the headwind in two, and sent her shooting towards the rising sun. Her crew dashed back and forth on deck, swinging yardarms and lashing sails, and kept the sixty-foot packet ship within the wind's path. The kelpwood deck planks were wet with brine; the sea chopped against the hull from three sides, splashing in over the rails. The Corvaer pitched and rolled over the seas. 


End file.
